


Embargo

by dreamofhorses



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Cell Phones, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: “I--I saw some stuff on your phone, Tim, when you were in the shower.” A flush starts up Timmy’s neck and Armie realizes he’d better talk fast before Timmy turns the color of the rapidly deepening sunset. “I hate being spied on and that’s not what I was doing, and I’d never even say anything if it was pictures of you with someone else, or sexy stuff you downloaded from the Internet that no one was supposed to see. But, um--” Armie swallows, hard.“That’s not what you saw, though, is it?” The blush that was creeping up Timmy’s neck has stopped in its tracks and is receding below the neckline of his T-shirt. “All you saw was you.”





	Embargo

“ _ Timmy, what the hell?” _

That had been the first thing to escape his lips when he’d opened the door of his walk-up apartment in New Orleans and seen Timmy there. The last person he’d expected and the first person he’d wished it would be. Armie now wished he’d taken the time to phrase something a bit more polite, a bit less emotional, something that showed Timmy the bedrock of emotion that had triggered his surprise.

But Timmy hadn’t seemed to mind. He never did. He’d just bounced into the apartment, “surprise, Armie! I just missed you, that’s all!”, given Armie one of his wriggling, electric hugs, and dashed off into the kitchen. “I just flew here from London, I need coffee!” Just like always, Armie could never say no.

He watches Timmy now as he putters around the kitchen, trying to find the ingredients for coffee, never guessing right the first time and poking his head into every cupboard and cabinet Armie has, bending into compartments beneath the sink and popping upright again, blowing curls out of his eyes, “well, I guess the sugar’s not in  _ that _ cupboard huh,” and all Armie thinks for a moment is  _ thank god Liz is in New York this weekend _ . They’d agreed on a slow public separation, and Liz was under no illusion that something was going to turn around, change, reverse the decay that had been building under their marriage for years, but that didn’t mean she’d be OK with seeing Timmy come and go from Armie’s on-set apartment at all hours of the night. Especially when Armie had told himself that the next time he saw Timmy he’d tell him. Put an end to pretending their wrestling was light-hearted fun. Tell Timmy about the times they’d be blind drunk in Crema and Armie would put him to bed, and then not sleep, just sit beside him all night watching his chest rise and fall and know his delicate sparrow heart was beating in there, and think nothing in the world except, over and over,  _ thank you _ . 

God, he needs a joint. Liquid courage is one thing, but Armie needs his brainpower, needs to be able to find words that soothe Timmy and don’t frighten him, words that express caring without, perhaps, telling Timmy  _ quite _ how deep his feelings run. That can come later; if Armie plays his cards right, he can tell Timmy  _ that _ he loves him, and spend the rest of his life slowly showing him  _ how much _ . Armie reaches for a small silver box on the table, rolls a joint without even looking while still watching Timmy putter around his kitchen, hoping it’s not just his imagination that Timmy looks so at home there.

Timmy sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of Armie and pulls out his phone. “You’ve gotta see this,” Timmy says, thumbing through his photos and showing Armie a few of some street art in London. Armie has to admit, it’s really good stuff. “Keep looking, I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna wash the airplane ride off of me,” Timmy says excitedly, rolling his eyes and gesturing to his hair and sweatshirt.  _ As if you can ever smell like anything but yourself _ , Armie thinks, remembering Timmy’s smell when he’d hugged him a few minutes earlier. Timmy never smells, never tastes, never feels like anything except a hundred percent, uniquely  _ Timmy _ .

Armie hears water running in the bathroom and thumbs through the rest of Timmy’s street art photos. Not only is the street art good, but Timmy’s got a real eye for composition. Armie isn’t surprised, honestly; the kid can do just about anything he wants.  _ Don’t think about that right now _ , Armie thinks,  _ or you’ll lose your nerve _ . _ He’s just Timmy, he’s not some intimidating prodigy _ . But of course, part of being Timmy is that he’s always both at the same time.

Armie’s run out of street art photos and has swiped further back in time, to some set photos Timmy has clearly taken to use as reference for  _ The King _ . They’re a lot more interesting if you’re involved in the film, Armie figures, and lights up the joint. While he takes his first drag he backs out of Timmy’s camera folder and prepares to set the phone down on the table when he sees there are other photo folders listed in the phone’s memory. Downloads, saved videos...one that just says “embargo”? Armie makes a note to tease Tim about whatever this is later on. You can’t very well take pictures of a lack of global trade activity, after all.

The water is still running in the bathroom. Armie takes another hit of the joint, closes his eyes, and leans his head back. His mind starts to drift. Timmy and his silly names for things…

_ Embargo. _

_ Bergamo. _

Suddenly this folder name doesn’t seem so silly anymore. Armie sits bolt upright and taps the phone screen frantically, hoping it hasn’t timed out and locked on him in the few seconds since he first noticed the folder. But he’s in luck. The folder opens and Armie’s suddenly staring at himself. And himself. And himself over and over again. Photos of Armie on set, talking with Luca, both of them looking serious and intent on creating what had ended up being the most significant piece of art of their lives. Armie asleep on an airplane, making a silly face in his sleep. Armie and Timmy together in front of fountains in Italy on their press tour. Armie talking to Liz at their old house in LA, tension held in his brow that he sees now but wasn’t aware of at the time. Armie napping on Timmy’s couch in New York when he’d spent a weekend there, breaking the news of the separation to Timmy, receiving Timmy’s hugs and sympathy and sleeping off what felt like a hundred years of stress.

The water in the bathroom shuts off and Armie taps frantically to get back to the home screen of the phone before hurriedly laying it on his kitchen table. He affects nonchalance as Timmy comes out in a fresh pair of sweats, grinning. “I feel a hundred times better.” His eyes alight on the joint in Armie’s hand. “I’ll feel a thousand times better if you want to share that with me.” Armie passes Timmy the joint and watches him take a deep hit before laying it in Armie’s ashtray. Timmy crosses to the kitchen and takes a beer from the fridge, knocking the cap off against Armie’s countertop before looking excitedly at the balcony beyond the living room. “Can we go out there? It’s such a nice night.”   
  
“Of course, Tim,” and when Armie speaks he hears that his voice is low, serious. Timmy will pick up on that, of course. He always does. He’s always had a seismograph hooked up to Armie’s heart.

“I mean, we--we don’t have to?” Timmy’s voice is hesitant, considerate.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll grab a beer and follow you.” But for the first time he can remember, Armie doesn’t grab a beer. He lets Timmy go ahead to the balcony, takes several deep breaths, and runs over some words in his head until he, maybe, hopefully, finds something that works. 

When he steps onto the balcony behind Timmy, the sun has already sunk below the line of buildings across the street, rimming them in a deep cabernet. A comforting navy twilight is descending after it like a velvet stage curtain. The only hue missing from the picture is green.

Then Timmy turns to Armie, and all the green Armie’s world will ever need is there in his eyes. Armie takes a deep breath and notices Timmy does the same, matching their breathing so the air they take in is the same, the same exact blend of atoms from the same moment to be incorporated into their bodies in the same way. Making them that much more like each other.  _ How long has Timmy done that? _ Armie wonders.  _ How much of us has he remade to be more like each other when I wasn’t looking? _

“I--I saw some stuff on your phone, Tim, when you were in the shower.” A flush starts up Timmy’s neck and Armie realizes he’d better talk fast before Timmy turns the color of the rapidly deepening sunset. “I hate being spied on and that’s not what I was doing, and I’d never even say anything if it was pictures of you with someone else, or sexy stuff you downloaded from the Internet that no one was supposed to see. But, um--” Armie swallows, hard. Funny, weed had never dried out his throat before. What timing.

“That’s not what you saw, though, is it?” The blush that was creeping up Timmy’s neck has stopped in its tracks and is receding below the neckline of his T-shirt. “All you saw was you.”

Armie wonders how the fuck Timmy’s blushing has suddenly been transferred to him, and his mouth is so dry he can only nod.

“That’s because all there is for me is you.” Timmy’s eyes grow soft, and in them Armie sees the tentative touches of a hundred people who would have loved Timmy, loved him well, given him travel or children or art or maybe the world itself, that Timmy has just brushed away over the past months. They’re doors that led to places Timmy couldn’t even see but that he has deadbolted shut, trusting that this moment and these words and this touch-- _ this touch, this touch, how long has his hand been on my hip, reaching, confident _ \--were as inevitable as water running for miles and miles over thousands of sharp stones to become a waterfall, crash to the ground, and fly.

Then Timmy’s lips are on his, and he didn’t even need those beautiful words he thought of to say, and he closes his eyes and is finally free no longer to see--but just to  _ feel _ .

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr if you want to chat there


End file.
